


Cracked

by CatLovePower



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Manhandling, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25804894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: “Jaskier, stop. It’s me,” Geralt growled, frustrated.The bard struggled even more at that, as if he didn’t believe him. His addled mind was probably playing tricks on him, and of course it was easier to believe Geralt was a monster. The real Geralt wouldn’t hurt a friend.orA sickfic with a twist.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 221





	Cracked

**Author's Note:**

> See end note for a potential (but spoilery) squick warning.  
> It's 80% hurt, 20% awkward comfort.

They had been camping for a few days now. Jaskier had insisted on coming along, arguing that they were going in the same direction anyway. And Geralt had relented, because he didn’t think they’d run into trouble, that far away from any big town. They had been apart for a few months during winter, so the witcher appreciated the company, but he made sure not to tell Jaskier that.

Instead, they kept pretending – Jaskier would complain about his stiff back in the morning and his aching feet in the evening, and Geralt would complain about Jaskier’s complaining. From afar, you would have believed they were just an old, bickering couple, as there was an unmistakable fondness hidden underneath layers of snark. But in those parts, there wasn’t anyone to watch them anyway.

They alternated between riding and walking through the woods. Jaskier’s horse was a gray gelding, shorter than Roach and more suited to him. It was slow, straying off the path to eat flowers along the way, and Jaskier did nothing to steer him back on track. But they weren’t in a hurry, and Geralt liked to be away from civilization.

That evening they stopped in a clearing, with enough grass for the horses, and big trees to provide shade and cover. Geralt got a fire going – he didn’t use Igni, did it the old fashioned way, much to Jaskier’s dismay. The witcher didn’t like using magic when it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Sure, those woods looked peaceful enough, but spark a little chaos and who knew what would come running.

They had packed enough for a few days of travel – ram meat, venison, and some herbs and seasoning because Jaskier didn’t like bland food. Sure, he would eat anything in a pinch – even stale bread that had been thrown at him – but Geralt figured it wouldn’t hurt to pack a little extra just to see him smile as they ate.

“So, how tall do you think that Wyvern is going to be?” Jaskier asked, talking about Geralt’s next hunt, several counties over. He seemed to think he was coming with him now, having forgotten his previous excuse of going in the same direction. The placard offering a reward didn’t specify, but Geralt knew Jaskier didn’t really want an answer, he was just running his mouth and letting his imagination run free. “I bet it is as tall as that huge tree over there.” He pointed at a pine tree, and Geralt nodded. Could be.

They ate in relative silence, because the meat was chewy and walking most of the day had taken its toll on the bard. At least he wouldn’t fret and recite poetry all evening. It wasn’t that Geralt didn’t like his poems, they just made him feel inadequate somehow. Like he was a brute, a mindless monster killer who didn’t deserve to enjoy beautiful rhymes and clever puns.

They fell asleep quickly, on either side of the fire, now reduced to embers, in the vast and silent clearing.

*

It took Geralt a little while to pick on the signs that something was wrong. Not that Jaskier was of any help, as he seemed to believe that being sick made him weak. As if Geralt would resent him for merely being human.

For starters, there was the lack of music – walking and being tired had never deterred him from composing ditties on the fly, but now he was silent most of the day. Then, there was the stumbling and the shuffling, despite the flat path devoid of any obstacles. And when Geralt decided they needed a break and led the horses under the shade of a tree, the absence of complaining of any sort.

“Do you want to drink?” Geralt offered, thinking the heat had gotten to him, even if it wasn’t that warm.

“No,” Jaskier snapped. He was never snappy. That was Geralt’s part.

“Is it the sun? I told you to wear a hat,” Geralt ventured.

“Hats look dumb on me,” came the groaned answer. He sounded like he was in pain, but refused to elaborate.

They walked in silence for the rest of the afternoon, as Jaskier insisted that he was fine. Geralt knew it was probably a lie, but there was nothing he could do if Jaskier didn’t open up, so he tried to enjoy the quiet for once. He didn’t dislike the bard’s chatter, but sometimes it was nice not to have to talk at all.

*

Jaskier knew he had made a mistake tagging along when the pain in his mouth came back in earnest. He had seen a barber in Novigrad, but the man had merely applied some foul smelling poultice to his teeth, and pressed an iron pin behind his right ear. Granted, the pain had relented for a while, but now that it was throbbing again, Jaskier was left to curse that charlatan who clearly hadn’t really solved his problem.

One of his teeth was rotting out.

He failed to mention it to Geralt because what could he have done? They were too far into the woods to turn around now; and his potions were only meant for witchers, not humans. And Geralt had made abundantly clear that he didn’t need to know about every little ache the bard suffered from on the road.

So Jaskier said nothing, chewed on the other side and hoped they’d reach a town before it got too bad.

*

Geralt disliked Jaskier’s horse, Pegasus, because he was lazy and obstinate, and the bard did nothing to keep him on course. But he was thankfully quite short, which came in handy when Jaskier suddenly slid off the saddle with a comical yelp and fell on the side of the road, not even trying to get up. He rolled on his back and stayed sprawled on the grass until Geralt dismounted to check on him.

He didn’t ask if he was alright, because he clearly wasn’t. His hair was damp and plastered to his face, and his cheeks were red and blotchy. _Fever_ , Geralt thought.

At this point, Geralt was mostly annoyed because that overly dramatic fall meant they’d have to stop and it was still early in the afternoon. He tried not to show it, as he dragged Jaskier to his feet, not liking the way he stumbled, as if his balance was shot, and helped him sit down under a large tree.

He passed him his water-skin. “Drink,” he said, and Jaskier wordlessly complied, wincing like it hurt.

They didn’t speak while Geralt quickly unsaddled the horses and set up camp. Jaskier looked small and exhausted, and the witcher tried to sift through his memory to find what could have made him sick like that. The weather had been more than clement for days, and they had eaten the same packed food on the road.

“Are you ill?” he asked the bard, who blinked stupidly at him and shook his head.

 _Liar_ , Geralt thought, but he just sighed and built a large fire, enough to keep them warm all night.

After that, Jaskier barely spoke and refused to eat. It was frustrating because he was visibly unwell, and it was making him stubborn – more than usual. They slept and Geralt hoped it was only a stomach bug, and that Jaskier would be as right as rain in the morning.

*

He wasn’t. If anything, he looked worse. His skin was ashen and his eyes clouded with silent pain. Geralt studied his tense face for a while, trying to read the lines, studying him like a problem which needed solving.

Jaskier sensed his gaze and misunderstood. Suddenly he was trying to get up, babbling nonsense. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I won’t slow you down, please don’t…”

His voice broke, but Geralt insisted. “Don’t what?”

“Leave me behind.”

The witcher pushed him back down and pressed his bare hand to his sweat slicked brow, and sure enough he was burning up. Such a fever, that quick. It had to have a reason, it couldn’t just be a bug. Maybe a small wound that Jaskier hid and got infected somehow.

Something in the way he kept his mouth shut was disturbing. For a short, but terrifying moment, Geralt wondered if it was lockjaw. But it couldn’t be, because lockjaw was usually fatal, and that was unacceptable.

“Jaskier,” he said, his tone serious, as he grasped his chin to force his unfocused eyes to settle on him. “Did you cut yourself?”

“Are you hurt somewhere?” he repeated, when Jaskier looked lost, not understanding the question.

He started patting down the bard, pushing his sleeves up on his bare arms and pulling his shirt out of his pants. Jaskier squirmed but let the hands roam on his skin – too hot from the fever – looking at Geralt with a confused expression, not unlike that of a scared child. He looked way too young, and Geralt felt bad for not explaining what he was doing.

“You have a fever,” he repeated, trying to keep his voice even. “Small cuts can lead to infections.”

Jaskier pawed at him and shook his head, wincing some more.

“What, Jaskier? Tell me. Dammit, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

“Chipped a tooth,” Jaskier said, his voice small and pained.

Up close, Geralt could see that the right side of his face was a little puffy.

“Let me see,” he ordered.

Jaskier shook his head again like a bratty kid and breathed, “No,” clamping his mouth shut.

Geralt decided that he would not risk his fingers for now, so he let go of Jaskier and tended to the fire instead. He’d need boiling water, and plants to reduce that fever. Henbane, his brain supplied, was good for teeth infections. Its smoke could reduce pain and he wouldn’t even need Jaskier to open his mouth.

The irony of it wasn’t lost on him – he kept berating the bard and telling him to shut up, and now the silence was unnerving.

*

Jaskier woke up in a fire pit of despair. Everything reeked of smoke and his body was burning up. Did a hunt go sideways? He didn’t remember what monster Geralt had been up against, and that was even scarier. It could be anything, it could still be there, lurking. He sat up straight and pushed the bedroll covers – no wonder he was too hot, bundled up as he was.

The woods were quiet all around the camp; the sun was setting, but it wasn’t dark yet. Did he sleep a whole day? And where was Geralt? Maybe he had finally cracked and left him behind. Jaskier was too out of it to really panic, until he heard noises coming from behind the treeline.

He tried to get to his feet, find a weapon, anything. He lurched sideways, fell on his face, and his whole world was suddenly reduced to mind-numbing agony. He moaned into the grass, feeling his jaw pulse along with his heart.

He scrambled on all fours when the nausea and pain finally lessened, but his limbs felt weak and uncoordinated. He couldn’t remember what he was trying to do in the first place. Maybe he should crawl back inside the bedrolls and sleep it off, wake up when his jaw no longer felt like he got punched repetitively and his vision stopped swimming.

*

When he opened his eyes again he had been tucked back, the pain had lessened a bit, and Geralt was sitting on a log next to the fire. He was crunching leaves into a pot and stirring. It was odd to see him stripped down of his armor. Lines of worry on his face made him look old, and distrust crept up in the back of Jaskier’s mind. What if the witcher was mad at him for slowing them down? What if it wasn’t Geralt at all?

He must have made some noise, because Geralt raised his head, looking at him with a cold expression. He wasn’t talkative on a good day, but he didn’t even utter a word when he approached, letting his mixture simmer on the fire.

“I’m… I…” Jaskier mumbled. His mouth felt wrong, and his head was airy, thoughts disjointed and broken.

The witcher pushed him back down with a sigh and put a hand on his face, cupping his left cheek. His fingers were cool somehow, so Jaskier leaned into the touch. But then the hand started gripping, turning his face slightly, and the pressure was bordering on painful on his jaw.

“Wha?” Jaskier croaked.

Big mistake. Geralt’s other hand was gloved, and next thing Jaskier knew, he had leather in his mouth, pushing his tongue out of the way, trying to… He didn’t even know. Betrayed and scared, he bit down. He let out a strangled yell when it seemed like all his teeth had shattered, the pain all encompassing.

He distantly heard Geralt swear loudly, taking his fingers out. _Served him right_ , Jaskier thought. The witcher looked wild, towering above him while the light of the fire danced in his yellow eyes. Was it even really Geralt? Cold fear replaced the fiery agony and Jaskier tried to squirm away, not even managing to get up.

*

Jaskier was scared of him. Geralt didn’t know what to think of that, so he shoved the information deep down with all the other emotions he didn’t want to deal with. He could excuse Jaskier, as fever was slowly cooking his brain, and he didn’t really explain what he was about to do beforehand.

“I need to see,” he said, trying to keep the annoyance and worry out of his voice, but still growling because that was his default tone apparently.

Jaskier just shook his head, unshed tears of pain at the corner of his eyes.

“Dammit Jaskier,” Geralt exclaimed, frustration and anger barely contained. If his tooth was really rotting, it wouldn’t get better on its own. “Just let me help.”

The bard was trying to move away from him, propped up on his elbows, legs tangled in the covers. Geralt dropped to his knees next to him, and held up his hands. He could only imagine what was going on in his fried brain of his.

“I need to see. I want to help,” he repeated, slowly, like you would talk to a child. Jaskier whimpered and scrambled away once more, but he didn’t go very far.

“Jaskier! Jaskier, stop, it’s me!” Geralt tried to calm him down, but there was no getting through to him.

Geralt sighed and made a gesture with his right hand, the other one grabbing Jaskier’s shoulder. He didn’t like casting Axii on humans, it felt wrong, and on Jaskier it was even worse. He eased him back down, without relenting his magical grip on his mind. _You’re safe. Nothing hurts. You’re just tired_ , he repeated, and Jaskier’s eyelids drooped. He wasn’t truly asleep, but he would be less combative for a little while. Pliant and silent – so unlike his usual self – and hopefully a little less prompt to bite.

Once Geralt got him to safely open his mouth and peaked inside, he understood why Jaskier was out of his mind with fever. It looked even worse than his swollen cheek suggested. The gum was red and taut all around that one tooth in the back. It was cracked and blackened – dying – and no doubt poisoning his blood by now.

Geralt was no expert, but he knew how to deal with infections; cut out the dead tissue and let the body fight it off. At least that was how he dealt with his own wounds. Humans were finicky and shock could kill them as easily as sepsis. Hurting Jaskier was the last thing he wanted, but given the state of his mouth, he didn’t have much choice. He needed to pull that tooth out.

He’d have to be quick if he wanted to use the remaining daylight. He didn’t think it could wait until the next day. A fever that high could kill a human, even a young and healthy one like Jaskier. This wasn’t going to be pleasant for either of them, and he hoped Jaskier would forgive him once he could think clearly again.

*

For a brief, blissful moment, Jaskier woke up to no pain at all. He felt rested and well, until it all came crashing down again and the pain threatened to swallow him whole, like a giant wave of agony.

Geralt. He needed Geralt. He would know what to do. He tried to push the covers, but his limbs felt full of lead and he couldn’t even sit up. He tried to call for the witcher, but his jaw was locked in place, stiff and swollen.

Geralt must have heard him anyway, because he softly said, “Fuck,” and suddenly his face appeared in Jaskier’s field of vision. There was something in his yellow eyes that made Jaskier uneasy; something cold and dangerous. Jaskier wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t remember what for. Words eluded him.

Geralt was talking but he sounded like he was underwater, and he hardly made sense. Jaskier closed his eyes and wished for the waves to engulf him and make the pain stop. Geralt was there, he’d know what to do.

Gloved hands roamed on him, tucking his arms back in the confines of the bedroll, too tight, too hot. He should protest, but he didn’t think he had the strength to do so. A heavy weight settled on his thighs, and a hand rested on his cheek, the leather cold and smooth. A distant memory emerged, and he remembered biting down on Geralt’s fingers.

 _Not again_ , he thought confusedly, and the hand pried his mouth open with bruising force.

*

Geralt wasn’t even sure Jaskier recognized him. His glassy eyes couldn’t focus, and the pain had stolen his voice. At least Axii gave him some respite, but they couldn’t wait anymore.

He straddled the bard’s thighs, fearing he could try and escape once more. He felt small under him, breakable and oh so mortal. Geralt tried to push those considerations out of his mind as Jaskier tensed, shaking his head slowly.

He didn’t have the proper tools for what he needed to do, but he had a small farrier kit he used for Roach, and enough moonshine to hopefully get rid of any remaining germs on the clippers. It was far from ideal, but it’d have to do. Now if Jaskier could stay still for one second… 

“Jaskier, stop. It’s me,” he growled, frustrated.

The bard struggled even more at that, as if he didn’t believe him. They had come across dopplers once or twice, and Jaskier knew what they were capable of; his addled mind was probably playing tricks on him, and of course it was easier to believe Geralt was a monster. The real Geralt wouldn’t hurt a friend.

When Jaskier saw the clippers, his eyes became huge in his face and he renewed his efforts to fight him, bucking and thrashing to no avail. He couldn’t understand that the salve Geralt was trying to put on his gum was supposed to help. Geralt put a knee on Jaskier’s rib cage, effectively trapping him. 

Jaskier’s terrified eyes were locked on him now, and he looked furious. Geralt felt a twinge of shame that he didn’t pack any pain relievers suited for humans. He had made a paste out of celandine – a plant from the poppy family but way less potent than opium. There wasn’t anything useful growing nearby, and the only time he had left Jaskier alone to go farther, he had tried to escape, fell and hurt himself. 

Geralt uncorked the bottle of alcohol he had used to disinfect the tool. He pinched Jaskier’s nose and forced him to drink as soon as he opened his mouth to breathe. Geralt could feel Jaskier’s heart rabbiting underneath him, like a trapped animal. He spluttered and coughed, but some of it went down. 

Jaskier gasped around his fingers, but didn’t bite this time – it had clearly hurt him more than it did Geralt the first time. The witcher hoped the tooth would give quickly, or that Jaskier would just pass out. He couldn’t use Axii, he needed his hands for that, and concentration he couldn’t spare right now. 

The clippers closed on the bad tooth, but they weren’t designed for that. They slipped and Jaskier jerked. 

“Don’t move,” he told Jaskier, and, strangely enough, he complied. All fight left him and his head lolled limply on the soft bedroll.

“I’m sorry,” he added, and Jaskier closed his eyes as the clippers clamped on his tooth again.

Geralt used that short respite from all the fighting and used both hands to pull, trusting Jaskier not to move. The broken tooth gave and blood and pus filled his mouth.

Geralt released him and rolled him on his side, bracing him against his thigh, while his other hand drew circles on his back. Jaskier hacked and spat, not even opening his eyes. He hadn’t uttered a single sound throughout the barbaric procedure, and that was probably the longest he had remained silent in Geralt’s presence. 

Getting him to rinse his mouth with water and chew on ivy bark was easy enough now that he had given up. Geralt could only hope that his body would be strong enough to fight off the infection now that the main source had been removed.

*

Jaskier must have been captured, because he was being tortured. 

But he hadn't talked, he didn’t say a word – they weren’t asking questions, only hurting him, but he knew they wanted him to talk. He didn’t even give them the pleasure of screaming when they shoved metal in his mouth and started pulling his teeth out. 

He just hoped they wouldn’t go for his nails next, because he needed those to play the lute. 

He hoped Geralt had found his lute, and that he was coming for him.

Time moved slow, as sluggish as his thoughts. It was night, but the fire was burning bright. His tormentors were pretending to mean no harm now, hands gentle and coaxing, but he could see right through them.

He’d be strong. He wouldn’t talk.

*

Jaskier was a stubborn bastard, and after a very tiring night where he was completely out of it, Geralt was confident he would pull through.

His fever was still dangerously high though, and when Geralt went to fetch water, he came back to Jaskier clutching a small dagger, sitting next to the fire and looking lost. His face was less puffy now, but the trauma to his jaw had marred his skin with ugly bruises. Geralt only hoped he hadn’t spat out the bundle of leaves and cloth tucked into his tooth socket, because he really didn’t need him to bleed or hurt any more than he already did.

Jaskier flinched when he heard him coming, and Geralt braced himself for another round of holding him down and convincing him he wasn’t the enemy. But this time the blue eyes that landed on him were clearer, and Jaskier’s confused expression melted into that of relief. 

The dagger slipped from his lax fingers and Jaskier sprang to his feet, only to stagger after two steps and fall in Geralt’s arms. The feverish hug was strange, but not unwelcome, and Geralt gripped him tight for a moment, before gently leading him to the bedroll.

“You found me,” Jaskier whispered, as if he couldn’t believe it.

Geralt said nothing and sat next to him, their shoulders touching, not wanting to break the spell and scare him again.

*

Jaskier fell asleep again soon after that. It took two days for him to fully regain consciousness. Geralt stood guard, tended to the fire and made sure he drank plenty.

And all throughout, he thought that maybe he liked it better when Jaskier refused to talk, because the bard was hardly silent in his sleep. Geralt had to listen to him plead, whine and apologize, with varying degrees of anguish and urgency, depending on how bad his fever was at the time.

It was like some part of him still believed the whole ordeal was punishment for something he did or said. Those fears clearly stemmed from deep-seated trauma and it made Geralt very angry, even if he didn’t know at whom.

He hoped that Jaskier was apologizing to monster-Geralt, and not the real him. He’d have to make sure his companion knew that his life was more important than a stupid contract he may or may not be too late to take. There would always be monsters to kill.

*

Jaskier woke up, confused and tired. There was a bad taste in his mouth, and he didn’t recognize the clearing they were in. Wracking his brain, he recalled hurting, trying to escape, and Geralt. Where… Oh, there he was.

“Awake at last?” the witcher said with a tired smile. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and it was probably the truth. He said he only needed to meditate to feel rested, but that sounded like bullshit.

Something was brewing on the fire, and the smell unearthed distant memories of torture and relief. Jaskier had drunk some of that, at some point.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asked, dumbly. Some part of him had to make sure Geralt could protect them both.

There was a smile on Geralt’s face now, and it looked odd and out of place, but also warm like the sun.

“I am now,” Geralt said, briefly clutching his shoulder.

His whole body felt like a giant bruise; fever would do that. He drank Geralt’s weird tea, made a face and swayed a bit. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep right after that, and yet he did.

*

“So, what you’re saying is that I was so strong that you had to Axii me into submission?” Jaskier asked with a lopsided smirk.

He was sprawled on the grass, basking in the sun after a quick bath in the river. Geralt was telling him about what he missed, but Jaskier kept making silly comments.

“I said no such thing,” Geralt deadpanned.

“Well that’s going into the song whether you like it or not.” Jaskier winked at him.

“A song about teeth? I think you’re still feverish,” the witcher mocked.

Jaskier cackled and then winced when it hurt his face, but Geralt wasn’t worried anymore. He looked and sounded better; his skin wasn’t ashen anymore, and his eyes were bright and clear.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, suddenly very serious.

“I hurt you.”

“Not like you had much choice.” Jaskier shrugged. “I don’t see a surgeon in those woods.”

Geralt stayed silent. They both knew he probably saved Jaskier’s life, but it was no excuse.

“Did you keep it?” Jaskier asked out of the blue.

“What?”

“My tooth.”

Geralt retrieved it from the cloth he had bundled it into. He had roughly cleaned it, but it still looked black and dead. The roots were intact and it seemed huge in Jaskier’s palm where he dropped it. The bard looked at it with some sick fascination for a while, then he said, “Well I’m glad it’s not in my mouth anymore. I’m sorry I–”

“Shut up,” Geralt cut him off abruptly, not caring about the shocked and outraged expression on Jaskier’s face. “If I have to listen to you apologizing one more time, I swear…” he growled, not finishing his threat.

Jaskier looked at him in silence, with a frown on his face. He clearly didn’t remember all the things the fever made him say, or at least he was pretending not to.

“What is it you’re not saying?” Jaskier asked softly. He was expecting Geralt to open up; he had always been better at sensing his discomfort and awkwardness.

“Also, will you stop standing so far away from me? I promise you I’m not broken,” Jaskier continued, as he scooted closer, still damp and only wearing his small clothes. The bruise on his chest stood out like a brand, another terrible reminder of Geralt’s brutish force.

Jaskier wrapped an arm around Geralt’s shoulders, whispering, “Alright?” – as if he was asking permission.

In the end, Geralt didn’t speak his mind. He didn’t prod to know who hurt Jaskier so badly in the past that he felt he needed to ask for forgiveness for his own suffering. He decided he’d have to let his actions speak for him – make sure the bard knew Geralt cared about him even if he didn’t say it.

“How did you crack that tooth anyway?” Geralt asked. Jaskier took personal hygiene pretty seriously, and he washed his teeth with cold water every morning.

“A lover smacked me in the face. Back in Novigrad. Well, she tried to bash my head in with my lute.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, but he was pretty sure Jaskier could feel the stifled laugh that briefly shook his shoulders. Trust the bard to nearly get killed by his own instrument.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this story deals with a tooth infection and is pretty much non-con dental surgery in the woods.
> 
>   
> I hope you all feel the need to call your dentist for a check-up now :')  
> Most of the remedies mentioned come from my very limited research on medieval dentistry. Don't try any of this at home.


End file.
